


And After All

by hernameinthesky



Category: Persuasion - Jane Austen
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Misses Clause Challenge, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 03:54:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17036150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hernameinthesky/pseuds/hernameinthesky
Summary: Anne and Frederick must both learn to adjust to married life.





	And After All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theravenwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theravenwrites/gifts).



> Apologies for any inaccuracies regarding the navy

Frederick dreams of drowning sometimes. Anne wakes up to hoarse gasps that make her think of a fish out of water. She wakes him up gently, caressing his wet cheeks and murmuring softly until he wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her hair. He never seems bothered by the dreams in daylight, but that sound stays with Anne, and it gives the sea a new, sinister quality.

*

She’s looks over the slate grey water one morning, a tightness in her chest. The waves are choppy and uneven, swelling to unwelcome heights before greedily rushing up the beach, or so it seems to Anne. But the men are procuring a sailboat from a local to take them all out in that afternoon.

“They know what they’re doing,” Mrs Harville says cheerfully when Anne cautiously suggests it’s not safe. They do, as it turns out, and they spend a pleasant afternoon soaring over the waves, but a seed of worry has been planted in Anne’s heart. When they get back to their room at the inn, Anne kisses Frederick until she can’t breathe.

*

They visit Kellynch often, and Anne glories in seeing the estate brought back to respectability by the Crofts. The knowledge that it’s unlikely to last when her father retakes the house is her only pain during these visits. She feels no resentment towards the Crofts, barely even curiosity about her old haunts and neighbours. Her heart is firmly set in her own little house, a place of more happiness than Kellynch has given her since her mother’s death.

It’s during one of these visits that Anne finally confesses her fears to Mrs Croft. They’re sitting in the smallest parlour, a quiet, pretty room that gets the best light in the mornings.

“I’m afraid of another war,” Anne says. “I’m afraid I’ll lose him again.”

She’s seeing cold, grey waves crashing over a pale face. Water turning red.

Mrs Croft puts a hand on her arm and Anne looks up to see her fears reflected in the other woman’s eyes.

“Best not to think about it. What will be will be. Frederick’s a good sailor, one of the best, he’s got a better chance than most,” Mrs Croft says.

Anne’s heart is lightened by the conversation, perhaps simply because she’s shared her burden, or perhaps because from that moment on there’s an added warmth in Mrs Croft’s manner as though she’s truly accepted Anne as a sister.

*

The day comes, of course, but Anne had not thought it would be so soon. She wants to go with him, but the small life she’s sheltering prevents that. The night before he leaves she plays for him. Obstinately cheerful songs that hold no note of yearning or grief. At one point he comes up behind her and places his hands on her shoulders. Her fingers slip, a jarring chord, then silence. The music sheet in front of her is blurred by tears.

“Come back to us,” she whispers.

“I promise.”

*

She waits two anxious weeks for his first letter but is disappointed when it comes. It’s full of affection, but there is also an unmistakable ring of joy when he talks of his crew and ship and the voyage so far. She chastises herself for her selfishness. Would she wish it otherwise? She ought to be glad her husband finds so much satisfaction in being at sea again.

And yet… She wanders the little garden they made together, wishing he could see it in the beauty of summer. The work they’ve put in these last few years is finally starting to show itself in a riot of colour and sound as bees hum around blooming flowers and squirrels scurry in the trees.

 _Can it be only three years since we met as less than strangers? I feel as though I’ve lived a lifetime since then_ , she writes him that evening. _I was an unhappy woman, unhappier than I knew._ She pauses here, looking around her cosy parlour with its furnishings more comfortable than grand and all the knick-knacks they chose together or were given by dear friends upon their marriage. She presses a hand to her stomach, just starting to swell, and feels suddenly at ease.   _I’m glad you write so contentedly, and I hope your passage continues as easy,_ she is finally able to write. _Don’t worry about us at home. Mary is coming to visit me next week with Walter and Charles, and I will do very well by myself until then._

*

Mary is very unwell from her long journey, she really can’t overstate the trouble it’s caused her, but she gets well again very soon when she is ensconced in the parlour, happily casting judgment on every aspect of Anne’s housekeeping and sharing every detail of her own.

Managing her sister’s children gives welcome activity to Anne’s life, and unlike in the past there are no feelings of regret or longing associated with it. She shares her news with Mary one evening when the boys are in bed.

“Are you?” says Mary. “How exciting! I do hope it’s a girl. Boys are so unmanageable, you really ought to have a girl, but I suppose Captain Wentworth wants a boy.”

Anne smiles. “Yes, Frederick wants a boy, but as I understand it, I don’t get the choice.”

“And I suppose you are so naïve as to want a boy as well. It’s always the same with new mothers,” Mary says, comfortably superior.

“I don’t mind either sex, so long as it’s healthy.”

“Of course not. But you really ought to want a girl. I told Henrietta so, but she’s set on a boy. I told her she didn’t know what trouble it is to have boys, and I have two!”

“How is Henrietta? I haven’t received a letter from her in a long time.”

“Henrietta certainly is a _dreadful_ correspondent and not at all a good neighbour since she married. I didn’t see her above twice the week before I left, even though she knew I was going to be away for a long while.”

Marriage, Anne’s found, does not dull every inconvenience of life.

*

The life within her grows and one night she feels an unmistakable movement. She presses both hands to her stomach, tears of joy pricking her eyes. And yet even in the overwhelming rush that gives her just a hint of what motherhood will be, she feels the empty space beside her like a lost limb. He ought to be here with her.

She writes to him about it, unable to be delicate at such a time. She tells him of the movements, of the small white dress she is sewing, the smooth wood of the cradle made by Captain Harville, and the silver rattle that was once her mother’s. He replies with wishes to be with her, hopes that he will be back in time for the birth, but his letters are shorter now and almost always leave off abruptly with some crewmate or other needing him. She worries he isn’t taking care of himself. She sees him overtired, overworked, unable to fight against rushing waves that drag him under.

*

“At least,” Mary says one day, “you’ll have something of him should the worst happen.”

Anne’s fingers go white around her teacup.

“There’s no need to speak of such things,” Mrs Croft says stiffly. She’s come up at Anne’s request to stay until after the baby is born.

“I’m sure I didn’t mean to offend,” Mary says coldly, drawing herself up. “I was trying to be of comfort.”

Later Anne and Mrs Croft go for a walk together, Mary having begged off due to a tickle in her throat that’s she sure will become a terrible cold. (“And I don’t think you ought to leave me when I might be so ill.” “Jemima will be here the whole time and can come and fetch us should anything happen.” “But-” “Goodbye, Mary.”)

“Do you think he’ll be back in time?” Anne asks.

“Yes, I think so, and he can always get leave. The navy are very understanding. And if he isn’t you needn’t worry, I’ll be here and Lady Russel is coming up, isn’t she?”

“Yes, next week.”

“It will be good to see her. More cheerful company is what you need.”

Anne thinks that what she needs is her husband. Perhaps Mrs Croft sees something of this in her face, for she takes Anne’s arm kindly and says, “I’ve no children, Anne, but I have a husband at sea as well as my brother. It’s difficult for us here waiting for them, but they always come back, and the reunion is sweeter for the length of the absence it ends.”

*

Anne and Frederick have their reunion, but Anne can’t say it’s sweet. She ignores the protests of Mrs Croft and Lady Russel and drives twelve hours with no stop but to change horses. She’s limp with exhaustion when they finally get to the harbour and are told the ship won’t be in for another two days.

Mrs Croft guides her back to the carriage and Anne is barely aware of her asking the driver about inns they can stay at. When the carriage rocks to life she reaches out blindly for Mrs Croft’s hand and clings to her solid warmth.

Anne spends the next two days pacing the beach, eyes fixed on the horizon. The second evening finds her sitting on a bench watching a magnificent sunset with Mrs Croft. The sky is lined with pink and blue and glowing gold, and the light sparkles and dances on the waves. The baby has been active all day, kicking and rolling, and Anne wonders bleakly if it can sense her fear.

“The waiting is the worst, it won’t be half so bad as our imaginations make it,” Mrs Croft says.

“Do you think-” Anne stop herself. Mrs Croft can’t know the truth of the injury any more than she can and so there’s no use distressing her with questions. But still her heart aches desperately for reassurance.

Mrs Croft wraps an arm around her. “I don’t know. But I know Frederick and I know you. The two of you can manage anything as long as you work together.”

Just then Anne catches sight of something on the horizon. “Oh, oh look! Sophy, is it-?”

“I think so,” Mrs Croft says, suddenly breathless. “Come on, we’ll wait at the dock.”

*

They haven’t amputated Frederick’s leg, and Anne could cry with relief despite the cautious tone of the doctor. There’s talk of lifelong pain, walking with a limp, but, the doctor finally says, the leg is safe and Frederick’s life is in no danger. He’s in a drugged sleep when they’re finally allowed to see him, and in silent accord they sit down on either side of him and each take a hand. They sit in almost total silence throughout the night, until pale morning sunshine falls over Frederick’s face and he opens his eyes.

*

They arrive home to an anxiously irritable Lady Russel, who insists on Anne going straight up to have supper in bed. Later, when darkness has fallen and everyone else is asleep, Frederick holds Anne tightly against his chest.

“I missed you so much,” he says quietly. “Worse even than the first time I left, and I didn’t think anything could be worse than that.”

“You’re home now, and you’ll never have to leave again,” Anne says, smiling. It’s not official, but Admiral Croft is certain Frederick will get discharged due to injury.

Frederick says nothing, and in the dark Anne can’t see his frown.

*

On a cool Autumn morning, Lady Russel wakes to hear a baby crying. She dresses quickly, with worry and irritation warring in her breast, and leaves her room to find the doctor making his way jauntily down the stairs, _as though he had just singlehandedly delivered the Messiah_ , Lady Russel thinks scornfully.

“Why wasn’t I called?” she demands with barely a greeting.

The doctor chuckles. “Mrs Wentworth didn’t want to wake you. Everything went smoothly, though it is a girl.”

Lady Russel decides it isn’t worth questioning him further.

“I’ll just order Anne some breakfast, and then I’ll go and see them both. Another little Elliot girl,” she adds, smiling to herself as she closes the front door on the doctor. She won’t technically be an Elliot, of course, but Lady Russel will never think of her as anything but.

*

The days pass in a dream to Anne. Frederick insists on keeping a nurse for a month, but she has barely anything to do, for Anne prefers to take care of little Elizabeth herself and what she doesn’t do Frederick is sure to.

“How can anything be so perfect?” Anne asks, numerous times a day, examining Elizabeth’s tiny fingers and toes, stroking her soft, downy head.

Frederick smiles down at mother and baby, for the moment looking as overwhelmingly happy as Anne feels, but there are shadows lurking. Anne can see them when he thinks she isn’t looking. He has long, quiet talks with the Admiral that he brushes off when Anne asks, and after their guests leave he takes to going for long walks alone.

“Doctors orders,” he reminds Anne, but when she wishes to go with him, “I’ll be going too far for you. Besides, it’s not good for Eliza to be out in this cold.”

“Fresh air does children good,” Anne argues, but in vain.  

*

Frederick is standing at a window when Anne enters the drawing room one evening after putting Elizabeth down for the night. Outside, the dark sky is spotted with stars and the trees look ghostly in the moonlight, but Frederick doesn’t seem to see any of it. He jumps when Anne comes up beside him and wraps her arms around his waist.

“Tell me what’s bothering you, darling,” she says, looking up at him with searching eyes.

He sighs heavily, but nods. “I am going to send a letter to the Admiralty and tell them I am fit for service whenever they need me.”

Anne steps back. “But you’re hurt,” she says.

“We both know it isn’t so bad as they thought it was going to be-”

“I don’t know that.”

“I do. I’m as fit as any other man, and I must do my duty. Doctor West has agreed to clear me for service.”

Anne stares at him in horror as it settles on her that this is something he’s already done, already decided. “But you can’t,” she says, barely more than a whisper. “I need you. Eliza needs you.”

He tries to draw her in but she resists, pulling against his hold.

“You can’t,” she says again. “Tell me you won’t, Frederick.”

“I didn’t expect you to take it so badly. You must understand, Anne, it’s my duty.”

“And your duty to your family? What about that?”

“It is my duty to my family as well as my country. I am defending the land for you and for Eliza, and for her children and their children,” he says, becoming strident.

Tears overflow down Anne’s cheeks and he softens, tries to embrace her again. She lets him, pressing her head to his chest where she can hear his heartbeat. There’s no use in trying to change his mind. However understanding Frederick may have become of her own more persuadable character, he’s never tried to emulate it, something Anne admired until this moment. Now she thinks of the baby sleeping peacefully upstairs, of how pale Frederick still looks, and fear turns her cold.

*

Things are very quiet over the next few days. Their guests all left long ago, but until now Anne had been too absorbed in her baby and her husband to feel their absence. She plays a lot, and when she’s not playing she walks with Elizabeth in the garden.

“Don’t play tonight, Anne,” Frederick says one evening after she’s put Elizabeth to bed. “Come and sit with me.”

She goes reluctantly to his side on the sofa. He takes her hand in both of his and kisses it gently.

“There may not even be another war, Anne.”

“If there is-”

“Then I may have to fight. I may not, the Admiralty might refuse my request. But if I can fight, I will have to, for we need every man.”

“You could die.”

“And if I stay then another man dies in my place. Or the ship I would have been given is unable to be used as she’s without a Captain, and perhaps one too many ships are without Captains and we’re defeated.”

“The navy is not lacking in volunteers,” Anne says. “You’ve said yourself enough times that there are a hundred worthy men looking for promotion.”

“Because England is full of good men. I must be among them, otherwise how can I live with myself? Knowing others are fighting for my country, while I stay home in comfort.”

There’s nothing she can say to that. She lays her head on his shoulder, fighting back tears.

“I want you to stay,” she says stubbornly.

“I want to stay, I wish I could.”

“Do you? In your letters you seemed so happy to be at sea. It didn’t seem like you were missing us overmuch.”

He cups her face in his hands and laughs suddenly.

“Anne Wentworth, are you doubting my love for you? After all this time?”

“No, not your love,” she says quietly. “Only your contentment on land.”

“I have never in my life been so contented as I have been these past few months with you and little Eliza. I have no longing for the sea, Anne, much as I love it. It is only my duty. You of all people must understand that.”

She smiles wryly. “Understanding is not the same as liking.”

“No, and I don’t like it either. I hope there is never a need for me to leave you again. And if there ever is, know that I’ll be counting the days until I can return.”

 


End file.
